


Soon

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>imonlyalittlebatty wanted: "What about Creeper!Dimmock, watching Anderson fuck someone/be fucked and he just sort of peeks in, and he’s whispering ‘soon’."</p><p>This is...well. I don't know what this is. The relationship can be interpreted as unrequited, though as the writer I believe it isn't.</p><p>Dimmerson (Dimmock/Anderson) and Anderson/OFC. Rated R for sexual situations.</p><p>Dimmock has a CD for Anderson. He isn't fazed when the door is open, because that's happened before, but he'd expected Anderson to be alone. First person POV (Dimmock's).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soon

I had the CD he wanted tucked under my arm and a smile on my face because when he appreciates something I share with him, I feel my world threaten to collapse, only in a really nice way. It's hard to explain, but just the look on his face when he's really appreciating something makes me feel like he's validating my whole existence or something.

I crave it, admittedly. I like the warm atmosphere of his home, wife or no wife. I like the biscuits he makes when he's stress baking and he needs to send the leftovers home with me. 

I like too many things about him. I even like the way he punches the buttons on the bloody stereo. 

He was supposed to be home, but his wife was supposed to be gone. And, yes, her car was gone, so she at least must have been out, and I knocked on the door, but he didn't answer. Sometimes, he doesn't. Sometimes he's in the back, watering a plant or tidying up his room.

I tried the door, and it opened easily. I'd just find him, give him the CD, and let him take over the evening from there.

Oh. I paused, the familiarity of the chemical-stained carpet underfoot. I heard a faint sound. 

No.

But...?

Not again.

He insists on making things hard. Things could be much simpler between us, much clearer, but, no, obviously he can't be attracted to a man. Obviously. It'd never work, he says when he's drinking and I'm wanting answers. But he's so full of shit.

I set the CD down on the coffee table, pulled my notepad out of my pocket and wrote, "Tell me what you think." I started to write an "I", then turned it into a "D" and put my surname instead. We're never consistent about that. I don't know if we want to be.

I should have left, I know. That's the right thing to do. It's bad enough I came in, dropped off the CD, and left, isn't it?

I wanted to know, though. I wanted to know what she looked like. Was she blond? Ginger? Did she have an amazing body? Was she full-bodied and perfect for cuddling up to? What was it about her that would convince him she was better for him than me, when he knew fuck-all about her, when she'd never tasted his baking?

I crept down the hallway, heart pounding. It was so wrong; it really was, wrong and sick and I didn't care about the consequences as much as I cared about the knowledge.

I would have moaned for him. I promise that. I would have.

The door was partway open. I could see in before I even made it all the way down the hall. The light from the room was hitting the wall next to me. I could see his new rock layer diagram poster he'd been on about, already up on the wall. I knew from memory that the spot on the wall next to it held an impressive map of Middle Earth, which I could see as I dared to get a little closer.

She was brunette, slightly overweight, and she was.... Well, she was in a spot I'd have bought Anderson a lot of action figures to be in; I'll just say that.

He was enjoying himself. I stood where he could see me if he just looked up, not knowing whether or not I wished to be seen. Just as I was going to turn round, he glanced up, shocked, curling his fingers in her hair. He frowned in confusion, his expression questioning.

In a rash moment, I pointed to her, then I pointed to me, and I whispered, "Soon." 

And he swallowed.

And then he gave me that look he makes when I'm not being a bit funny, even though I think I am, but I wasn't laughing about this. 

This hurt.

I stopped by the kitchen on my way out, checked the fridge and found some biscuit dough. To the backdrop of them finishing up, I ate my odd mate's biscuit dough, just a few bites, just a taste, sighing when it was good as always.

"I really hate you, Anderson," I said to absolutely no one.

I left him a postscript. "P.S.: I expect a biscuit or two."

And, you know what? I got them come Monday. I got a tin full of biscuits baked just for me. They'd never been baked just for me before. I held onto his tin so he had to come and collect it.

He said he liked the CD, but he'd been disappointed we hadn't listened together like we usually did.

I didn't know what that meant. I never know what he means.


End file.
